by Vince Milam
The Colt M4A1 rifle snatched from the trunk, I dashed right, toward the shack, and slid into a weedy space between a rusted collection of auto bodies, old water heaters, and cracked fiberglass camper tops. And waited.
He’d assume I’d work my way deeper into the junkyard since designating this place. So he’d spend his time stalking the wrong direction. The Colt was equipped with a suppressor and a 2X magnification red dot scope. The suppressor reduced the weapon’s sound signature from the sharp crack of a rifle to a stout hand clap. No one from any distance could discern the sound as the result of a trigger squeeze.
I hunted. Eye to the scope, safety off, finger resting against the trigger. The two-power magnification sufficient to send a 5.56mm bullet into a golf-ball sized object at a hundred yards. The hitter’s head wouldn’t present a challenge.
A professional hit man, an urban killer, against former Delta Force. Across an outdoor obstacle-laden environment. Advantage, Case. Big time. Glimpses of him appeared between junk piles. Gray khakis, black walking shoes. Portions of his body moved past thin open cracks among the piled junk. He held his weapon with one hand, chest high. A position better suited for urban up-close hits. He moved slow, steady, never assuming a defensive posture. Whatever he guessed as my background, he now counted on years of successful assassinations as a leverage point. He knew how to kill. And no doubt owned acute awareness of quiet city streets and parked cars and dark alleys. His turf. Not now—we faced off among trees and brush and random junk piles.
The scattered trees and tall shrubs held birds. They called and fluttered, going about their birdy business. Except when he crept past. Pockets of moving silence as the critters ceased calls and rustles, waited for the intruder’s passing. Plus his windbreaker and pants scraped brush—small but distinct sounds. Even when lost from sight, I knew exactly where he moved.
I knelt among the junk, hidden by weeds and long-abandoned metal. The rifle rested on the horizontal bar of an old A-frame hoist, now collapsed and rusted. The guy would present soon enough, clueless, his life’s terminal point imminent.
Ten minutes passed, then twenty. He circled the junkyard, worked toward my parked sedan. He stepped from behind a piled collection of old washing machines, weeds growing through the collapsed and disintegrated sheet metal. And offered a perfect full-second exposure. A clean head shot.
Couldn’t do it. No moral qualms drove this multiple murderer’s short reprieve. I wanted him to talk. Reveal something, anything which could clarify who ran this murderous mess from Abaco to Long Island. So I continued waiting as he moved closer, focused on the kill. He’d accepted a contract and intended delivery in full.
Seven paces away, he stepped past head-high junk and surveyed the five acre jumble, his back to me. Perhaps he thought I hid like a rabbit, frozen with fear. Or figured I’d hoofed it away through the brush and trees, losing him. I’d never know.
“Freeze, asshole.”
He spun left, dropped to a knee. The pistol whipped toward my hidden voice. His last move on this earth. The rifle’s muted crack sounded his death. Birds flapped and fluttered, a distant truck ground gears.
Damn. Dead men tell no tales. I retrieved the ejected cartridge casing—nothing left behind—and donned latex gloves. Extracted his wallet and anything else that might help identify him. A New Jersey driver’s license. I memorized the name and rifled through the wallet for more. Two credit cards—one with the same name as the driver’s license, the other under a different name. His “only for business” card. I pocketed that one. No cell phone, but I soon discovered it on his car seat. The screen was password protected. No worries. Back at the Ace I owned a device that connected with the charger port and drew out a phone’s entrails, allowing the oracle an easy read. The vehicle held no other identifying documents.
Dragged his sorry ass into the weeds and junk and left the pistol alongside the body. A body discovered in a day, week, or month. The Colt back in the trunk, the Glock on the passenger seat, I pulled alongside the old collapsing shed at the entrance and shut the car down. Listened without engine noise interference. There was no traffic, dead quiet. I started the car and pulled onto the still road, headed for home.
Eight hours back to Chesapeake and the Ace of Spades. I held no great satisfaction, no elation, no sense of a job well done. Too dirty, the whole affair. A pathetic rich guy wallowing in hedonism, killed with a hard-core professional’s poison. Administered through one of the play boys or girls or servants.
A Hamptons rich guy drowned, murdered. Managed and triggered by the same person who’d taken out Bettencourt. No doubts. Plus three dead hitters left for others to find. And a bunch of Abaco kids abandoned, used, their future unclear. Their predicament bothered me as much as cleaning the hitters. Can’t save the world and all, Case. But still.
So I’d poke around on the internet and snoop for a Jordan Pettis connection. Check in with Jules. Write the report for my Swiss clients, and couch activities with nebulous terms. Met extreme resistance collecting tissue sample. Challenged by aggressive unknown party on Long Island. The report filed, as always, on the deep web, 256-bit encrypted. Where sniffers and electronic hound dogs wouldn’t pick up a trail. While ugly events and death and used young people floated as flotsam in my wake. Helluva way to live.
Chapter 10
Bo called after I turned off the interstate and began the coastal road route. A physical relief with the absence of high-speed crowded freeways and I rolled my head, rotated my shoulders, and opened a window. The tight two handed wheel grip relaxed and warm salt air whirled.
“Hi ho,” said my blood brother. “How be my favorite goober?”
A mile-wide smile accompanied joy and positivity and possibilities. I adopted an immediate mental atmosphere change and rode the Bo connectivity express.
“You don't call, you don't write. Clearly the special bond we once had is now lost forever.”
A Bo belly laugh and quick retort. “And yet messages, my brother, were sent your way. Ongoing and consistent.”
“Were not talking standard communication formats are we?”
Bo often alleged the efficacy of mental messages or universal personal pipes or mere chance. Cosmic chance, serendipity. Although he vacillated on the chance vs design concept, arguing metaphysical uncertainty as the appropriate approach. Bo being Bo—a full time job with a worldview I reveled in. Yin to my frumpy yang.
“Standard communication? As standard and, perhaps, as real as our surroundings.”
“How is Oz?”
A poor assumption. Bo tooled across Australia last we'd seen each other. But this call could originate from any locale. Including a trailing vehicle a mile behind me. Bo Dickerson was that good. A tracker extraordinaire, with the mystical ability to slip unnoticed and appear among the bad guys at the perfect moment. Our Delta Force team spearhead. First-in. With a wildness and fearlessness and remarkable sense of time and place. The best, and most peculiar, warrior we ever met.
“How was Oz,” said Bo. “I drifted back and waltzed among the dripping conifers and wrestled a bear and abided in spiritual love with the bear’s mate.”
Portland, Oregon. Bo returned stateside and now spent time with Catch—the bear—and his partner Willa. Catch—Juan Antonio Diego Hernandez, another member of our Delta team. Catch lay low in the Pacific Northwest where he tried conducting a normal life. Normal for Catch. His name was unattached to a driver’s license, credit cards, or utility bills. And he lived with a remarkable woman. But while Catch preferred living open and large, his pedal-to-the-metal life approach remained muted. The bounty.
“How are Catch and Willa?”
Bo was back. Outstanding. And another opportunity for elaboration on the benefits of the Ace of Spades lifestyle. I'd often offered the Ace option if he found himself without a settled spot in the world.
“Robust and ornery and beautiful and inspirational.”
“Give them my love.”
“I already hav
e my Georgia peach. Yet a subject beckons. A request from this gentle soul.”
His tone and projection contained a dash of hesitancy.
“You already know the answer.” I’d die for my blood brother and best friend. Whatever he requested would get done, pronto.
“I require your time. It’s a large request. Perhaps the largest.”
“All the time in the world.”
“Including time aboard your watery steed?”
The Ace. Bo would head this way and spend time with me cruising the Ditch. It didn’t get any better.
“I’ll go nab your skinny butt and haul you here if that’s what it takes.”
“There’s no nabbing necessary.”
“Then come. Post haste.”
“Not a bad name for a folk-rock band. No Nabbing Necessary,” he said.
“Or conjure yourself up alongside this coastal highway. Jump in this fine vehicle. We’ll sing songs of love and battle and brotherhood. You choose.”
“So as not to rattle you, how about tomorrow morn’ via a more standard conveyance? A flight from Portland.”
“Grand and glorious. Come. Come and settle with me.”
“Might you provide a destination? I discern rushing wind, which precludes the sedate Ace. You’re driving, so a runway of sorts should reside nearby.”
“Norfolk. I’ll meet you with bells on.”
“Meet me with wisdom and insight, brother.”
A semi-concerning statement. Perhaps Bo muddled through an existential crisis or a bout of depression. It happens. He lived full-tilt boogie and never presented himself with less than wild definitive perspectives with the strangest combination of gentleness and warrior attitude. But everyone hits road bumps. Bo and the Ace and the Ditch would afford time and contemplation and heartfelt rapport, a potent salve. We signed off after I emphasized, twice, a text message with his arrival details was much preferable over cosmic communications.
Everything changed. The drive till now had been filled with doubts and uncertainties. Mental pinball with worry the object, paddled with angst and concerns toward the job I wrapped up and doubts about my abilities.
I made a healthy living as a contractor with Global Resolutions. It made for regular employment—and consistent work was a requirement based on a sense of responsibility and an element of pride. The lion’s share of the money went to Mom and CC. And I was good at what I did. Until now. When hired for more dangerous jobs, a well-honed sense of environment, proactive movements, and trained reactions held me in good stead and high demand. The Delta Force background played well among elements of global intrigue and revolution and geopolitical maneuvers. But this job required different skills, and I reflected on what could have gone better.
More Abaco interviews. Enquiries with staff and more of those kids. A more thorough rifling through of Bettencourt’s desk seeking Central America clues, information. Asked for his cell phone and taken it. Captured, not killed, one of the Nassau hitters and coerced answers by hook or crook. Asked Sally more questions at the Whitmore estate. Coulda, shoulda.
I held pride as someone who over-delivered. Couldn’t say that about this one. I committed to improvement. Learn to focus on the gumshoe aspects of these gigs. Anticipate where the killing might appear and avoid it. Sidestep, maneuver, and find answers.
Bo’s arrival plopped a blood brother on board the Ace. We’d hang out, talk through issues, laugh, live. And hammer out those doubts and worries and address whatever was sideswiping him. It was all good and needed and anticipation at this arrival ratcheted up.
Entering the outskirts of Chesapeake, late, I parked behind an abandoned warehouse a quarter mile from the Ace. Rucksack across my back, Glock holstered, the Colt rifle locked and loaded, I maneuvered through the dark and gritty industrial setting. Remaining shadow-bound was the moment’s directive. I paused at regular intervals and listened and watched. Entered the dock area through a ripped hole in the old Hurricane fence and waited fifteen minutes. Eyeballing the docks and the Ace, I sought any movement large or small. Other than the dark dashes of a few wharf rats, quiet.
I boarded my home and performed the usual routine—a quick check of the onboard tripwires and movement cameras. Then inspected the engine room, bedroom, and wheelhouse with left hand wielding a small flashlight and the Glock filling the other. All clear. Tension eased, normalcy returned. An iced Grey Goose joined me in the wheelhouse. A quiet night on the Elizabeth River, the night traffic minimal. The Ace and surrounding boats shifted through a languid dance, gentle tugs at the tie-up lines within each boat slip.
Sleep wouldn’t come for several hours, so I produced the junkyard hitter’s cell phone and credit card. Plugged the phone into the extraction device and let the software perform its magic. Laptop software checked the hitter’s business credit card through online backdoor access. Nothing unusual on the card—clustered purchases spaced six to eight weeks apart. The frequency of his murder contracts. The last group of purchases were in the Hamptons. Room, food, drinks. He’d waited for me, having been instructed I’d arrive.
The cell phone tool listed recent incoming and outgoing calls with associated limitations. All the calls were either restricted or unknown. No trails, no leads. Nada. One disturbing aspect was revealed when the tool peeled back layers of inbound restrictions on several inbound calls the day after I left Abaco. My tool could dig and capture details to a certain level and no more. With the post-Abaco calls, the no more consisted of 256 bit encryption technologies. A brick wall. Same as my phone.
I fixed another drink and conducted a concerted search for a Jordan Pettis. Lots of folks shared the name. A Tuscaloosa banker, Reno insurance adjuster, a Beaumont welder. Searches associating a Jordan Pettis with Bettencourt or Whitmore or Central America drew a blank. Another nothing, nada. I was one remarkable sleuth.
My satellite phone rang again, the call tone a wooden tick-tock. A call from the soon-terminated exchange for a Mr. Jack Tilly. It was strange timing this late at night.
“Mr. Tilly. It is Elena. You gave me card.”
Eastern European accent and young. Kid-like. The young lady on Abaco who had approached me and Tig asking if I needed anything.
“Hi, Elena. How are you?”
I was glad she’d called. A touchpoint for a tribe of lost kids and unsettled business.
“It is good. All is good. I am leaving.”
“Probably a good thing. Tell me where you’re going.”
“Barbados. Sister there. I have work.”
“What kind of work, Elena?” I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer and sat up straight.
“Hotel maid. With sister.”
A half smile and cocked head toward the heavens. A whispered “Thank you.”
“That’s excellent. Excellent. I’m glad you let me know.”
A pause as her thoughts gathered. “I call for another reason. I think you are a nice man. So maybe I can help.”
“Okay.” No clue where this line of conversation headed.
“Tig left. On boat.”
“Okay. Tig left. Is he coming back?”
“I do not know. But he packed many clothes, many things.”
“What kind of boat?”
“Big boat.”
“Whose boat?”
“A man. One man.”
So Tig jumped on board a man’s boat and left Bettencourt’s dreamland. And odds sky high a man with ties to the Nassau hitters and the Long Island pro. I should have questioned Tig more, much more. Stupid.
“What did the man look like?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Tmcruz.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Movie star. Tmcruz.”
I chewed that for a moment, rifling through images of celebrities. My awareness reservoir in that arena was both shallow and brackish. Silence brought another attempt from Elena.
“Tm. Okay?”
“Tm. Tom? Is that right?”
“Yes, Tm. Cruz.”
&n
bsp; “Tom Cruise? The man who picked up Tig looked like Tom Cruise?”
“Yes. And now Tig is gone.”
Tig floated with the fish if this sponsor desired tying up every conceivable loose end.
“Okay. Are you safe?”
“Safe. Good. And travel tomorrow to sister. You are a nice man.”
We signed off with Godspeed and a quick prayer of protection and guidance for young Elena. All right. A good end for a strange day that included a dead hitter left among junkyard weeds. But the phone call relieved one gut knot created when I walked away and left those kids to fend for themselves.
Sleep now came easy. Bo tomorrow, joyous and needed. Nothing but dead-ends with further job digging, so I’d do a wrap with Jules and submit the report with salient, valued information. Elena was saved, rescued. And maybe, just maybe, other young people at Bettencourt’s place followed the same path. A solid stop point for the day. The Ace cradled me, the Glock my bedmate. I dreamt of violent struggles against unseen enemies, deep within warm blue-green water, the surface light far away and unreachable.
Chapter 11
Wild red hair, a scraggly beard, wide grin, and eyes filled with mirth—it wasn’t a challenge picking Tulsa, Oklahoma’s own Bo Dickerson from among the crowd exiting the Norfolk Airport’s security area. The hug was tight and lasting. He smelled of eucalyptus and ginger.
“How’s the bod?” I asked. Bo incurred serious bullet wounds last we’d met. Courtesy of Jemaah Islamiyah terrorists.
“Fine as kind. And you, old son?” My head received a gentle knuckle rap. “Body good and mind better?”
I’d also caught bullets during the firefight. Those, along with an upper chest arrow wound, healed at their own pace. The occasional manifestations barked at odd and unforeseen moments—throbs, the random sharp bite. The mental health portion of Bo’s enquiry wouldn’t be dwelt on at the moment. Plenty of time for that. More important was his overall equilibrium.